


A Hint Of Cinnamon

by AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, dark&twisty, re-post from 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell/pseuds/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell
Summary: This is the story about a man who had it all.He’s the man over there. The one on the couch in the FBI bullpen, the one with the blonde curls, the charming smile and the tea cup in his hands.What if I told you he wasn’t happy?You wouldn’t believe me, would you?





	A Hint Of Cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

> And a BIG special thank you goes to the wonderful clairebare for beta reading!

**A Hint Of Cinnamon**

**.**

**.**

_This is the story about a man who had it all._

_He’s the man over there. The one on the couch in the FBI bullpen, the one with the blonde curls, the charming smile and the tea cup in his hands._

_What if I told you he wasn’t happy?_

_You wouldn’t believe me, would you?_

.

* * *

.

Patrick Jane remembers a small room and white walls, a woman with dark brown eyes and blonde hair that carried the scent of cinnamon.

He remembers a girl he called Charlotte, a girl with blonde curls and eyes as blue as the sky.

He remembers pills, blue and white and red and a soothing voice telling him: „It will get better, Patrick. One day it will.“

.

* * *

.

He takes off his wedding ring on a cold morning in the middle of January on the beach at Corpus Christi.

With tears in his eyes and screaming at the top of his lungs, he throws the golden band into the sea. Watches the hungry waves as they swallow it, watches as his past sinks to the bottom of the ocean.

It’s time to let go.

That’s what they say.

.

He marries Teresa on a sunny day in the middle of June.

It’s a small and private wedding and Patrick declares his love in front of God. Teresa is a Catholic after all.

She wears a white gown and Patrick says _yes_ when it’s time.

He smiles and nods and clinks glasses for the rest of the day. Looking forward to the bright future lying ahead.

.

At night when life has become silent, Patrick watches the shadows creeping closer. Watches as they make their way towards them with outstretched hands and hungry eyes.

When he turns to Teresa, his fingers slowly trailing down her bare skin, there’s a different name on the tip of his tongue.

The scent of cinnamon.

_Angela._

.

Teresa gives birth to a girl with brown hair, rosy cheeks and tiny fingers ten months later.

Patrick is next to the bed, watching as the nurse cradles the newborn in a towel and places it carefully in Teresa’s arms.

The little girl stretches and yawns before she blinks and Patrick meets the darkest eyes he’s ever seen.

The universe has a strange sense of humor after all.

.

He’s standing next to the crib, watching his daughter. She looks angry even in her sleep. Her little hands balled to fists and Patrick’s sure she’s about to scream.

„You are safe, you are loved and you are wise,“ he whispers softly, while he bends down to brush his fingers against her cheek.

When she opens her eyes a second later, her eyes are blue as the sky. The scent of strawberries and cream making his heart ache.

.

Patrick’s sitting at his desk in the study, a pen in his hand and a blank paper in front of him.

When he hears footsteps he turns, a smile on his face when his eyes find the blonde woman in the doorway. Dark eyes watching him, the little blue eyed girl with the blonde

curls pressed to her mother’s chest.

„Jane, are you alright?“

Patrick blinks, his eyes still fixed on the woman in front of him and he watches as blonde hair becomes chestnut, watches as brown eyes turn green.

„Jane?“

He blinks again. His gaze fixed on the toddler on Teresa’s arms, her chocolate brown hair in pigtails. Her dark eyes watching him knowingly.

„Jane!“

Patrick shuts his eyes. It’s almost funny how easily she falls back into old habits.

„I’m fine, Teresa,“ he tells her before he gets to his feet and over to where she’s standing. „I’m fine,“ he says again as he pulls her close against his chest and buries his nose in her dark hair.

All he smells is lavender.

.

Patrick’s sitting in front of the house, his wife cooking dinner in the kitchen. His daughter next to him playing with her doll and singing a song, the lyrics made up but the melody is _Beethoven’s For Elise._

„Daddy?“

„Yes, Charlotte?“

He looks down to meet his daughter’s gaze and finds dark eyes looking up at him. A girl with pigtails instead of blonde curls. She smiles.

„Did you just call her Charlotte?“

Patrick freezes. When he turns, he finds Teresa standing in the open door. Her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her face full of fear. He searches for an excuse, but in the end stays quiet.

It’s Emily who gets to her feet, her lower lip trembling. „Don’t be mad at daddy,“ she says, her dark eyes filling with tears. „We play with my dolls,“ she adds and Patrick watches his three year old daughter lie straight to her mothers face. „I called mine Charlotte.“

That’s all it takes for the distress to disappear from Teresa’s face. She nods and smiles before she gives Emily a brief kiss on the forehead and walks back into the house.

When they’re alone and his daughter turns towards him, there’s a mischievous smile on her angelic face.

„We’re liars, daddy,“ she whispers proudly. Her dark eyes turning blue.

.

He’s sitting on a bench in the park watching his daughter play when the woman sits down next to him.

Patrick doesn’t need to look up to know it’s her, the familiar scent of cinnamon gives her away.

„You lied to me,“ he says. Not looking at the blonde woman next to him. „You told me it would get better one day, but it doesn’t.“

He feels her cold hand reach for his, her fingers interlaced with his own.

„It will get better, Patrick,“ she whispers softly. „One day it will.“

He wants to laugh, but instead he holds on to the hand of the woman next to him. His wedding band glistening in the sun the only link to reality.

.

* * *

.

Patrick Jane doesn’t remember a small house in Texas or a woman with sparkling green eyes and dark hair that carried the scent of lavender.

He doesn’t remember a girl he called Emily, a girl with pigtails and the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.

He doesn’t remember pills, blue and white and red or a furious voice yelling: „You haven’t changed a bit!“

.

* * *

_._

_T_ _his is the story about a man who had it all._

_He’s the man in the room at the end of the hallway. The man with the blonde curls and the smile on his face. The man staring out of the barred window._

_What if I told you he was happy?_

_You wouldn’t believe me, would you?_

**.**  
**.**


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